Bra beating

Can the right bra change your life? Part II

If you read Part I, you know that I’ve had a rocky relationship with brassieres. (And I haven’t even told you about the time my bra snapped a button on my backless dress, causing my entire halter top to flip into my lap…at the ballet.)

Underneath it all, though, I know things can be different. When my sister Becky told me that her new bra was a bastion of support and comfort, well, I wanted that too. I hit up Google Maps and started hunting for custom-fitted bra stores in glassland.

I found one and called to make an appointment. “Honey,” said a raspy voice on the other end, “You don’t need no appointment. Unless you’re bigger than 56M, just walk right in.”

56M?!!?

“Yeah, if you want bigger than that we’ll have to special order.”

I assured her that 56M was far, FAR more than adequate, and cleared my calendar for an afternoon visit, since the place was hellandgone away from my house and Becky said a fitting took about two hours.

On the drive down I envisioned my fitting: Two frilly, pampered hours of silken lace in a velvet pink boudoir. I sip light herbal teas on a comfy sofa while cooing handmaidens display one perfect brassiere after another. At last, I quietly drift to the mirror and discover…my bra has changed my life!

CRRAAAAACK! The tire hit a pothole in the seedy little shopping center, jolting me out of my reverie. This wasn’t the greatest part of town, but sometimes the best gems are in seemingly awful parts of glassland. I got out of the car, stepped over a couple of ladies who obviously thought more of tattoos than underwear, and opened the door to the shop.

The smell of mold hit me, hard. Naked plastic torsos with conical breasts dangled forlornly from the ceiling, and the dingy grey walls were papered in news clippings, cartoons and typed slogans. The subjects alternated between Jesus and breasts–I thought Jesus held a slight edge. Broken glass cases were stuffed with telephone books, dusty corsets, and prosthetic limbs.

The place seemed deserted but I saw one reassuring sight: Stacks and stacks of flat white bra boxes. The place might be less, erm, prepossessing than Becky’s lingerie boutique, but obviously they had a huge selection.

An older woman peeked from around the curtain. “Hello, honey,” she smiled, “Whatcha need?”

I explained my mission.

“No problem. When I get done with you your boobs are going to sing for joy. Go in there”–she pointed to a curtained booth about 2×2 and papered with more Jesus jokes–“and take off your top.”

Uh.…I complied, and she followed me with a bra.

“One bra? Aren’t we going to try on several?”

“Nope, honey, This is the only bra you’ll ever need. It’s called the anti-gravity bra and I’ll fit it right to you.”

She unfastened a bunch of straps, undid a lot of snaps and buttons and things, and held it up for my inspection. It was–without question–the largest, ugliest bra I had ever seen. I asked if she had something a bit fancier.

“Sweetie, this is about your boobs. Nobody’s going to see this bra. Now, hold still.” She wrapped The Bra around my middle, fiddled and yanked my…person…until she gradually built up a massive polyester infrastructure stretching from my navel to just below my collarbone. She had me bend over and shake everything into final position, then stood back and surveyed the results with satisfaction.

“There. Ain’t that the best thing to touch your boobs since your husband?”

I peered into the mirror. “Uhm. it looks awfully loose”–I demonstrated by easily placing a fist in the gap inside the right cup, between the tip of The Bra and the tip of…me.

“Sweetie, sweetie. The fit is exactly right. See, you’re going to grow and fill all that up in about six weeks.”

Huh?

“Yeah, ya see, womens’ boobs aren’t all in front. Most of ’em’s under your arms and around to the back. The underwires in most bras cut off circulation and your boobs go to where they can get more nourishment.”

The vision of vampiric underwires chasing fleeing mounds of tissue held me in thrall as she continued, “Once you get the right bra, your boobs will move back to where they’re supposed to be. If I sold you a smaller bra, in six weeks you’d be back here buying this one.”

I gave her a doubtful look.

“Oh, I know, I know. I didn’t believe it either when I had my first fitting. But you know what? I’m 80 years old and I’ve nursed four children. Before my fitting I had to roll myself up like a sock and stuff everything in. Now, well…grab my boob and feel for yourself.”

Uhhh….thank you, but no.

“I mean it, honey. Grab me, right here. See? Like a teenager. Once you get the right bra, it all grows back in the right place, like you were 16 again. Trust me–it’s been proven in scientific studies and I’m living proof.”

Well…

“I promise you, try this bra for just 10 days and it’ll change your life.”

Change my life?

“Yeah. You won’t ever wear another bra again. I promise. Will that be cash or charge?”

Charge!

As she was ringing up my purchase she glanced casually at my now-enriched torso. Under my sweater the stiff, scratchy lace of The Bra had collapsed into an awesome collection of wrinkles and creases. It looked as if I’d crumpled 10 feet of aluminum foil and glued it to my breasts. But…if this bra was going to change my life, well, I had to give it a shot, right?

“You know,” she said casually, as I signed the charge slip, “I could only see five of your breasts.”

Excuse me?

“Yeah, I can see the three on the left but only two on the right. All women have six breasts,” she pontificated, “but only the middle pair grow big. But I can usually spot ’em–have you had surgery? Want me to show you?”

I grabbed my credit card and fled.

On the long drive home The Bra started to itch. After nearly causing an accident trying to scratch, I pulled off to the side of the road, dove under the seat and wrestled myself out of The Bra. It wasn’t easy but I escaped with only heavy bruising.

Next day my parents dropped by for lunch and I wore The Bra again. Mom was…amused…and Dad made noises about gullible daughters. The Bra itched worse than ever, and I finally removed it.

This Halloween I’m going to have the biggest, baddest scarecrow on the block, right in my front yard. And thanks to The Bra, she’ll be built like a brick house.

P.S. Eventually I did find a good lingerie store, and the experience came surprisingly close to what I’d envisioned. I do heartily recommend it…even if you can only find two of your six breasts.

Or, to put it in plain English, folks: Ask first. This blog is first and foremost a personal journal, a chronicle of my work with a fairly difficult technical medium. I'm happy (thrilled, even) to share what I know, and I'll help you with your own journey all I can... as long as you respect my groundrules.

I don't sell ads, products or services, and unless disclosed I buy all products/services mentioned in this blog, with my own money. I don't claim to have invented processes, tools, new artforms, or techniques (unless I specifically say so). HOWEVER, my writing and art (and any errors of fact or fiction) are my very own, original work. Don't blame anyone but me if I get it wrong.